Mr Perfect and the Dragon Reborn
by Min Daae
Summary: Written for Shorelle the lovely. Galad promised to ally with anyone fighting the Seanchan. He didn't expect to meet that 'anyone.' Galad meets Rand, is adorably confused, and learns something or two surprising. Oneshot, Galad/Rand gen.


Galad refused to show his nervousness, keeping his eyes fixed forward and ignoring the tense atmosphere. His men clustered around him, casting wary glances at their vanguard, and he couldn't blame them. There were only six of them, unsmiling and foreboding, dressed in black from head to toe, but it was more than enough that on their high collars glittered two pins – one a sword, he didn't know what that meant – and one a dragon. That, on the other hand, was clear enough.

His men would have fought, and Galad was glad that they hadn't. By all reports, they wouldn't have had a chance. Perhaps this way… "What are you planning?" Trom asked in a low voice, from where he'd ridden up beside him. Galad shook his head.

"I'm not certain. It depends on where we're going." Trom cast a nervous glance at the Asha'man surrounding them.

"And if…"

"No ifs, Trom," Galad said firmly, "You remember what I said. We will find anyone fighting these Seanchan. _Anyone._"

Trom shook his head and opened his mouth, but they were interrupted. "You are the leader?" Trom shrank back and Galad took a moment to gather himself before turning to face the man. His large, dark eyes made him look young, silver bells tinkling in his braided hair.

"Yes," Galad said, briefly, not offering his name.

The man nodded slightly, seeming thoughtful, and gave him an appraising look, eyebrows slightly quirked. "Be glad we found you," he said, briefly, and Galad couldn't tell what his tone meant.

"Might I ask our destination?"

Shrugging gracefully, the man said, "Not me. You can try him," jerking his head sideways at a man who had appeared, rather abruptly, in the road. Galad thought about that, and shivered, though he did his best to hide it. As they drew near, he pulled his horse in to a halt. The man beside him swung down off his own mount and strode smoothly over.

"Narishma. Were you planning on telling me that there were Whitecloaks wandering around, or have you decided to take things into your own command?" The voice was cool, even, though the man in the center of the road's gaze never strayed from Galad.

"They surrendered," Narishma said, briefly, "And I didn't go alone." There was a moment of cool silence that Galad recognized, and winced. Narishma, however, didn't seem concerned. "You were busy. I thought it better to catch them early rather than let them wander right into the Black Tower."

Galad blinked. Wasn't the Black Tower where the…he shook that off and cleared his throat. Narishma looked back at him. "—oh, right. That's-"

"No need for introductions. Galadedrid Damodred." Galad started at his name, and then realized where he knew the man from, though he looked very different from when he'd last seen him.

"Logain Ablar," he said, mind spinning a little bit. Logain looked well. And certainly not cowed. Galad thought he saw his mouth twitch, briefly.

"If you would…"

Logain stopped, head turning, and a moment later the air divided in a slash and another man stepped out, taller even than Logain and looking distinctly annoyed.

"Were you planning to mention this, Logain?"

"I just heard myself, Lord Dragon," Logain said, not quite sharply, "Narishma seems to have decided to take matters into his own hands." All eyes flicked to the unlucky man with the bells, who looked a little embarrassed. Galad was far more interested in the new arrival.

Lord Dragon. So this was the man who had shaken the world so profoundly. Standing, Galad felt that he would tower more than a head over him. When his face switched to look at him, his eyes were flinty gray, hair a color he'd never seen before except –

He blinked. Rand al'Thor – for some reason he'd never connected the name with the boy Elayne had bandaged years ago – the one who'd fallen off the palace wall and into their garden. But now that he thought about it… He emerged from his reverie to realize that Logain and al'Thor were staring at each other, and realized that the air was nearly humming with tension. A moment later Logain turned away and jerked his head at the Asha'man, who relaxed. A collective breath went out of Galad's men as well.

"Dismount," Logain said, voice slightly clipped with annoyance, "All of you." Galad hesitated, then obeyed, knowing he would have to set the lead for his men. To his relief, none of them resisted. Perhaps they, too, had caught onto something in the air. He turned to soothe his mount and found himself facing al'Thor, who looked oddly thoughtful.

"Come with me," he said, briefly, and Galad had a moment to blink before al'Thor seized his arm. Again a slash through the air and it rotated open – but the land on the other side was entirely different from what it should have been – a hallway, empty, inside a building – almost familiar. He had a moment to stare at it, uncomprehending, before al'Thor dragged him forward through it. A moment later it was gone and the sound of his men and horses vanished, as well as the grass beneath his feet.

Galad reeled, mentally. Rand al'Thor – the Dragon Reborn, he supposed he had to think of him as that now, even if it was hard to shake the picture of a bewildered farmboy with a bandage around his head – didn't seem to notice, already striding down the hall, clearly expecting him to follow.

After a pause, he did, not really seeing what else he could do, confusion only mounting. A few twists and turns later, the hallway widened, and al'Thor paused, a hallway stretching ahead of them. He realized where they were.

Caemlyn. Morgase – no, _Elayne's _palace.

"Does Elayne know we're here?" He heard himself asked, dazed.

Alarmingly, the Lord Dragon shot him a grin over his shoulder. "No, and she doesn't need to," he said briefly, before striding down the hall again. The palace seemed very quiet. Galad tried to cling to little details that made sense.

"Where are we going?" He asked, feeling that his voice sounded a little too plaintive, but he couldn't quite make it otherwise.

Rand stopped, suddenly, looking at something on the wall. A moment later Galad caught up to him, and then stared at the picture.

It was an old portrait of Tigraine, looking into the distance, her expression oddly pensive. He had a moment of blank confusion before al'Thor spoke again.

"Did you know her?"

Galad blinked. "What?" He said, intelligently.

"Did you know her – have memories of her." The Lord Dragon sounded…curious.

"Not…really? I was…very young when she vanished," Galad said, carefully, staring at the man next to him almost worriedly. He grimaced, slightly.

"Oh."

"Why…"

"She was my mother, too."

Galad was struck dumb, and wheeled, simply staring at the Lord Dragon, formerly farmboy. "…_what?_"

"She went to the Aiel Waste because of a prophecy. They knew her as Shaiel." Galad blinked, and stared and then blinked again, effectively silenced. Rand almost seemed amused. "That makes you my half brother."

Galad looked at al'Thor, looked at the portrait, looked back at Rand. The resemblance was…clear. "I guess it does," he said, slightly dazed. There was a brief silence. Then the Lord Dragon turned to face him, his face serious again, focused.

"Would you care to tell me what a small band of Whitecloaks is doing wandering around so far from Amadicia?"

Galad straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. "We're looking for someone who's fighting the Seanchan." He paused. "Anyone."

Rand looked thoughtful. "Eamon Valda?"

"Is dead," Galad said, coldly.

"I see." He paused, and then turned to look at Galad. "I am…attempting to make an alliance with the Seanchan."

Galad narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

The answer was short and alarmingly to the point. "The Last Battle is coming. Quickly."

Galad started. "What?"

"I don't know when. Just soon. And I'd like all the allies I can get when it does."

Galad nodded, a touch dazedly. "That makes sense."

"So it does," Rand al'Thor said, softly, and then blinked and shook himself. "…I should let you go."

"That's all?" Galad said incredulously, before he could stop himself. The glance he received was wry.

"There's nothing else I want from you."

"My men – they're all right?" Galad said, wondering suddenly if this had been a diversion while they were…destroyed. Rand nodded, once.

"Perhaps a bit nervous. But not harmed." A pause, and then he turned and stepped into the center of the hallway, the air opening again in that weirdly unnerving way. Grass again. Outside. This time Galad stepped through, trying not to let his knees wobble at the thought of what that…gate was made of. Rand followed him and the gate vanished even as he set off down the hill toward a cluster of tents. A few people looked up, or paused, but only a few – most seemed busily involved. Galad tagged after Rand again and blinked when he heard raised voices, recognizing Trom's, and speeding up his pace –

He nearly ran into Rand as he stopped and stared at his men, arrayed in white on one side of a table, and on the other a crowd of the younger Asha'man, and at the table with a dice cup sat Trom and Narishma, seemingly arguing over the results. Galad blinked.

"You've returned."

"So I have," Rand said, coolly, looking over at Logain. "Was this your idea?"

"No," Logain said, and Galad thought he caught a note of amusement. "It was not."

Rand turned to him, again. "if you and your men would like to go elsewhere, you may. Provided you don't hinder anyone valuable." Galad nodded briefly, and examined Rand, thoughtfully.

"I don't think I'm in a hurry to go anywhere."

The Lord Dragon almost smiled. Almost. Then he just nodded. Galad hesitated, then offered his right hand, silently. After a hesitation, al'Thor held out his right hand, just as wordlessly. Galad glanced down and noticed for the first time that the Lord Dragon's left hand ended just above the wrist in a handless stump. He opened his mouth to ask, closed it, dropped his right hand and offered his left. Rand al'Thor took it, his grip firm and sure. Galad met his eyes and blinked. What had been flinty seemed suddenly weary, almost sad. Then he let go.

Galad opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn't entirely sure what, but in a moment another one of those gates opened and closed and he was gone. He looked at Logain, who simply looked back at him, and he couldn't hold that gaze for long.

Trom seemed to have lost, as he stood up and wandered over, another of the younger taking his place eagerly. "What was that?" He asked, quietly. "Was that…"

Galad nodded, slightly. "The Dragon Reborn."

Trom hesitated, then said, tentatively, "He's very tall." Galad almost laughed.

"Yes, Trom."

"…and he looks a lot like you," Trom added, frowning a bit. Galad turned and looked at him, thinking.

"Does he?"

"Just – in a few ways," Trom said, quickly. Galad nodded.

"I wouldn't recommend mentioning this too widely. But apparently he's my half brother."

"Oh," said Trom, sounding a little bewildered, then asked, tentatively again, "Are we moving on, then?"

Galad shook his head. "No. I don't think so." He paused. "Do you mind?"

Trom thought about that, frowning a little. "…ask me in a week," he said, eventually, and Galad did allow himself a smile.

"I'll do that."

Galadedrid Damodred, half brother to the Dragon Reborn, Galad thought, almost grimly amused. Who would have thought?

Certainly not him.


End file.
